My So-Called Sex Life

Happily Ever Laughter

I love nothing more than a good laugh. It can be over something totally dumb, like a cat dragging its butt across the floor, its face all bug-eyed with delight. "Oh, yeah, shag carpeting. Scraaatch me! Scratch me in those hard-to-reach kitty parts!"

It can be over something somber. That person that laughed at your Uncle Tony's funeral last year? Might have been me. Not that I find death particularly funny. It's just... I get nervous and try to find the humor to settle me down. If nothing hilarious is staring me in the face, I'll just make something up. Ex: "Oooh, that usher over there... Wouldn't it be embarrassing if, as he picks up the coffin, he passes some serious wind?" I'm super mature that way.

Laughing releases tension. So does a positive outlook on life. Humor has paid my bills, bonded me with friends, and gotten me through some of life's harrier moments -- including that harry boyfriend, pre-Rex, who I sent packing on an Amtrak train two days before I was supposed to meet his parents. Not my most shining moment, but the idea of a life drowning in back hair freaked me out more than Disneyland's Tower of Terror. And the idea of both that man, and the 10-story drop, made me sick to my stomach).

For some reason, I had fallen into the trap of laughing with my kids, my mom, my friends, even the local gas station attendant. And yet with Rex? Not a giggle. Not a guffaw. Not even an "I'm laughing on the inside" smirk.

We used to chuckle all the time. It didn't matter that he was a logical computer nut and I was a creative thrift store addict. We'd go to dinner and yuk it up about his co-workers, or my silly antics with the kids. Our differences are what completed us. But toward the end of last year we got more serious. I can only attribute it to the enormous responsibility of raising a family and work. But instead of us both driving one ship through the rocky waters of life, he helmed the SS Career Ship while I was Maiden Captain of the Baby Wipe Tug Boat.

I don't mean to sound dramatic. We were hardly headed for the Big D, but we weren't headed for the bedroom either. If it weren't for the fact that I talk to everyone and their dog (maybe even their butt-dragging cat from above) I could have freaked out, thinking our lack of communication was a dreadful sign of complete inequality. But it's not. Lots of people, in the craziness of life, lose touch with the ones they love most. The key is to know you're not alone, realize you're missing what you once had, then fight like hell to get it back.

Marriage, like a TV script, takes a lot of work. From the outside, looking in, it seems like perfect harmony and seamless pleasant stories. But behind the scenes there are last minute plot changes, personality conflicts, and frustration over "not enough action."

And yet, when everyone talks about the problem and chips in to find a solution that works for the whole cast (husband, wife, kids, hell, Grandma if she's going to watch the rugrats so you can get a night out), suddenly the tension breaks, and everything works. You can't remember why it wasn't always that way  easy, happy go lucky, and fulfilling. Yes, fulfilling.

That's what happened with Rex and I. After a fight over a plugged vacuum hose (no joke  and trust me  it was his fault) it all came spewing out. His complaints: I don't spend enough time with him. My complaints: He doesn't spend enough time with me.

Me: "The let's change that!!!"

Rex: "Fine!"

Me: "FINE!"

And then we laughed. Because we were so used to fighting, it took a second to realize we were on the same page. The first page of a new script of us trying to have more fun together:

Fade in: Andrea and Rex start working as people that like each other, not fighting against each other - even if they only stay at home and vacuum the car out. Rex can use his anal side to get the last standing goldfish cracker out from under the baby seat. I can make jokes about long hoses and things that suck.

Insert: 50 more years of silly banter, lots of parties, and tons of sex.

Fade out: Rex dies at Andrea's hands because he forgot to set down the toilet seat. After fifty years of asking, can you blame me?

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